


Torn Up Town

by letlovein



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mental Health Issues, which are left unspecified because i don't know anything about them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 12:32:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letlovein/pseuds/letlovein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin wanted nothing more than to go home and drink herbal tea and sleep for hours and hours. Of course, that was the day the Home Situation started acting up, and nothing came before that for Merlin. Ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Torn Up Town

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on simpleton!arthur at the end of series 4, but i don't pretend to know anything about mental illnesses so i've left arthur's unspecified in this fic.

The tube was busy this time of day.

Merlin squeezes past a chubby middle-aged lady who’s decided to stop in the middle of the staircase and fumble around for something in her handbag, and he sucks in a breath as a man running even later than he is barrels past him in the opposite direction. Clutching his leather bag possessively – the last time he let it bump freely at his side, it had been jostled up by the crowd and hit a very angry businessman in the face, and Merlin’s face had still been scorching when he let himself into his flat forty-five minutes later – and keeping his head down against the oncoming tide, he pushes through the bustle of rush-hour foot traffic and treads on several toes before he finally makes it to his platform, hair standing on end and a flush high on pale cheeks.

The train speeds into the station and Merlin tries to elbow his way to the front of the crowd attempting to cram their way onto an already crammed train. Thankfully, he’d stopped at one of the less crowded carriages, and manages to collapse into a spare seat in the middle of a row of tatty blue chairs that probably hadn’t seen better days, in all honesty. Two seconds later, a woman with grapefruit lipstick and a vicious blonde bun sits down on one side of him and an elderly man in a flat cap plonks down heavily on the other side, with a grunt and what looks like a cat carrier on his lap. Merlin hopes it’s a cat. He’s seen worse in his time as a resentful London commuter.

Letting his head rest on the glass behind him, he closes his eyes and tries to sigh as quietly as possible as the train lurches forward with a pained hiss and everybody rocks forward with it. Today has been an exceptionally bad day in a series of bad days, all rolled up into one cumulative bad week. He thinks he should be happy that it’s Friday, but home has been hard as well, recently, and he’d rather swap his weekend for two more torturous days at the office.

Unfortunately, he can’t. And I never would, he thinks bitterly.

Monday, he was exactly seventeen minutes late into work – twenty-three minutes if you counted in the routine Monday morning reprimand he got from his boss, which Cenred counted too but also counted as Merlin’s fault. His first job of the day had actually taken up the entirety of Monday and Tuesday, and half of Wednesday. It turned out there had been some sort of database disaster over the weekend, and as the publishing company Merlin worked for only saw fit to employ five IT consultants, they’d all been run off their feet trying to recover countless files and documents and restore order to an ill-protected system. Long hours whittled by as everyone else went home, copious amounts of coffee were inhaled and tears were shed. They’d then spent the rest of Wednesday improving the ill-protected system so they wouldn’t ever have to go through the past few days again, and on Wednesday evening Merlin wanted nothing more than to go home and drink herbal tea and sleep for hours and hours. 

Of course, that was the day the Home Situation started acting up, and nothing came before that for Merlin. Ever.

Thursday he’d woken up with a banging headache, and the key to the medicine cabinet was nowhere to be found, so he’d had to skip breakfast and leave fifteen minutes early to fit in a trip to the shops to pick up some painkillers, before Merlin realised he’d forgotten to bring a bottle of water and had to swallow the pills dry, something that nobody should be able to do without a problem. The headache didn’t let up until lunchtime, however, which wasn’t helped by the practice fire drill that Merlin swore was only ever scheduled for when he actually had free time. Most of the time he wasn’t even run off his feet by actual work – he was just drowning in an ocean of complaints from employees from all the other departments who barely knew how to turn a computer on, including a surprising number who were far too interested in what a ‘cookie’ was. 

The rest of Thursday had passed uneventfully until Gwaine left work early to go out with some psycho bitch from Marketing called Morgause and ended up in the hospital an hour later. Merlin wasn’t clear on the exact details – although he was pretty sure it involved drinking, a motorbike with a sidecar and suspicious involvement on Morgause’s part. He’d try to warn Gwaine that the blonde’s sudden interest in him couldn’t mean anything good – Merlin himself, during the few visits he’d been on up to her desk to work on an IT problem, had been on the receiving end of Morgause’s irrational hatred of him, despite the fact he had literally never spoken to her. Or perhaps it was nothing personal and she simply despised everyone. Some days, Merlin thought he knew the feeling.

Anyway, Merlin did glean from that little accident that he was Gwaine’s emergency contact, which was news to him, and which was also why he’d been at the hospital for three hours until Gwaine was discharged with five stitches in his cheek and the nurse’s phone number. Neither of them had cars, so Merlin had insisted on escorting Gwaine home, despite the fact that it was out of Merlin’s way, and despite the fact that every time he went to Gwaine’s flat, Gwaine tried to ply him with alcohol and get him to stay the night. It was mostly in jest, when he did this – Gwaine knew about the Home Situation – but not fully. Merlin never failed to consider what would happen if he took Gwaine up on his offer, and he never failed to feel rotten inside for the rest of the night whenever these possibilities crossed his mind. Gwaine seemed to understand, though, without ever asking, and that was nice, because Merlin thought he was the only person who would understand. God forbid anyone else found out.

Merlin hadn’t gotten home until well past ten that night, and predictably the flat hadn’t been quiet. Sometimes Merlin wondered at his own level of kindness and tolerance. 

And today, Cenred had been off sick and left instructions for Merlin to fire the newest arrival to the IT department – Freya, the nervous but sweet girl Merlin may or may not have taken under his wing within ten minutes of meeting her. Merlin honestly had no idea what she could have done to merit getting fired – his dick of a boss hadn’t bothered to leave details - and it appeared Freya didn’t either, as she tried not to break down on the other side of Merlin’s desk. The other two were out having lunch so Merlin had tried to comfort her at the first sign of a wobbly bottom lip, his heart breaking for her – a week into her employment, Freya had confessed to Merlin how long she’d been looking for a job and how she could finally move out of her parents’ house now it looked like she had a steady one – but she’d shrugged him off a little coldly, tears filling her eyes as she hastily cleared her desk and fumbled with her coat before hurrying out of the office, sending Merlin a tremulous half-smile as she left that didn’t do anything to lift Merlin’s spirits. She was gone by the time Gwaine and Elyan had got back with sandwiches and beers they wouldn’t have dared to try and smuggle in had Cenred been here today.

All in all, it had been an unreasonably stressful and tiring week that Merlin feels he really doesn’t deserve. Honestly, he’s second-in-command in a five-strong – now four-strong – IT department in only the fourth most successful publishing company in the country. His life really shouldn’t be this exhausting.

Lulled into a near comatose state by the familiar swaying motion of the tube, Merlin almost misses the curt female voice and the subsequent shuffling of feet that signals his stop. The woman with grapefruit lipstick has disappeared but he does almost manage to knock the elderly man’s cat to the floor as he shoots out of his seat and towards the doors that are already closing. The cat lets out a hiss that assures Merlin it’s definitely not a cat. 

Once safely on the platform with limbs and clothes mostly intact, Merlin slings his bag across his body and shoves his hands in his pockets as he hurries up the steps into wonderful, brilliant, Godsent sunshine. The BBC weatherman had cheerfully informed the country this morning that it was set to be a glorious weekend in London, although Merlin doubts he’ll get out to enjoy it much. Some people are already out enjoying the one of five days of sunshine they’ll get this year, swapping suits for shorts and double shots of espresso for iced coffees. Merlin thinks about stopping in at the corner shop where his best friend Gwen works and getting some kind of treat for himself so that he could have some sort of weekend like everybody else. Maybe he’ll even allow himself a ten-minute catch-up with Gwen, if the shop isn’t busy.

But then he remembers last night, and how important it is that he gets home on time tonight, so he passes the corner shop with a slightly sorrowful glance and picks up the pace as his street comes into view. His previously sour mood has lifted slightly with his brief walk in the sunshine, and he can’t help but hope that maybe today is a Good Day, despite the fact that he knows Good Days rarely ever immediately follow Bad Days. All of a sudden he does want to go home, to a place that he can always count on no matter what. Maybe Merlin doesn’t always know exactly what is going to greet him at the end of each day, but he always knows exactly who is going to greet him at the end of each day, and that is enough – no matter how bad he feels – to make him get off the tube every single day at the right stop and go home to spend the night in the right flat.

Because he considers breaking this routine every single day and wondering what would happen; except he knows what would happen, much as he’d like to pretend he doesn’t, because it’s happened before and Merlin will never let it happen again.

Some days – the worst days, the really bad ones that don’t happen very often at all but they do happen – Merlin thinks seriously about not getting off at his stop, and just riding the tube to the very last stop and getting off and seeing where that little diversion would take him and if he would ever go back and how many months, weeks or days it would take before his guilt ate him up from the inside out until he was nothing more than a shell of the cowardly, disgusting man he’d turned out to be.

Because he may not be living much of a life right now, but it’s something. It’s everything compared to the life he’d be living if he packed up and left right now.

His flat is seven floors up, much to Merlin’s chagrin, and the elevator has been broken since the age of the dinosaurs. The building’s probably even older but Merlin doesn’t mind that much – he’s got a roof over his head, he lives close to most of his friends and the neighbours aren’t a complete nightmare when the couple next door aren’t screaming each other into next week.

Finally reaching his flat, breathing more heavily than Merlin thinks a 27-year-old man probably should be, he listens for a few moments before letting himself in and shutting the door behind him. The flat is quiet, but it isn’t the hushed kind of silence Merlin dreads more than anything, the kind that slithers up the walls and weaves through the air and crawls up the back of your neck. It isn’t the kind of tense silence that promises something more sinister and, taking this as a good sign, Merlin advances further into the flat, toeing his shoes off and dumping his bag on the kitchen counter.

“Arthur?” 

There is an answering thud from the bedroom. Goosebumps prickle on Merlin’s bare forearms as he moves towards that room as chilly air washes over him, at odds with the heat bathing London outside at the moment.

“Arthur, are you in the bedroom?”

Merlin swings the door open – he doesn’t know why Arthur had felt the need to close the door when he was the only person in the flat but he doesn’t know why Arthur does half the things he does – and the simmer in his ears that had grown louder and louder until it was a rumble of thunder that preceded the outbreak of the storm fades and dissipates into suddenly warmer air as relief fills his head instead and shoulders slump a little tiredly. His stance relaxes slightly and he could cry if he hadn’t gotten over that impulse months and months ago.

Arthur is stretched out on the bed, two pillows behind his back and odd-socked feet crossed, a book cradled rather than clutched in his hands. He’s focused intently on the pages when Merlin first enters the room, brow drawn into an exaggerated frown that makes Merlin smile slightly, a smile that isn’t anything but tired. He looks up after a few seconds when he realises he’s not alone, though, and beams brilliantly at Merlin, baring his teeth in all their crooked glory. Suddenly, Merlin can’t remember for the life of him why he was so reluctant to leave work today, and his heart swells with affection.

“Merlin!” The book is put to the side, completely forgotten. Arthur pats the empty side of the bed beside him. “How was work?”

“Don’t get me started. This entire week has been exhausting,” Merlin admits as he collapses next to Arthur, closing his eyes and almost moaning at the welcome comfort after a day of sitting in a broken desk chair. A flash of guilt crosses Arthur’s face, but it’s gone before Merlin can see it and realise what he said. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m here now and it’s the weekend. Have you looked outside today? The weather’s great, Arthur, we could go out this weekend if you wanted, make the most of it. It’d be good to get out the flat for a while. We could even meet up with Gwen, you haven’t seen her in ages. Or your sister! She and Leon are back together, you know, did she tell you? Fourth time lucky or something. One of these days they’re going to realise how much time they waste every time they split up. They’re teenagers, Arthur, both of them, I swear. You need to tell Morgana to get her act together. Oh, and I saw the strangest thing on the tube today. This old man with a cat in one of those cat basket things you take to the vet, except it sounded like a baby dragon or something. I’ll never understand why people bring pets on the tube, especially baby dragons. I mean, what if I was allergic to baby dragons or cats or whatever? It’s inconsiderate, is what it is. Can’t they find another way of getting to the vet?”

When Merlin opens his eyes and blinks up at a soft-eyed Arthur, he grimaces. “Sorry. I haven’t had anyone intelligent to talk to all day. It’s all kind of just spilling out. I’ll be alright once I’ve had a nap or something.”

“You know I don’t mind, Merlin.” And the look Arthur bestows upon him is so sincere and honest that it leaves Merlin wondering what he’s done to deserve it. Sometimes Arthur will do this, though. He’ll just stare at Merlin without much explanation, usually when Merlin’s babbling or otherwise unaware of his enraptured audience of one. Maybe he should ask Arthur about it soon, but that might ruin it for both of them. Arthur can stare if he wants to. Merlin certainly isn’t going to deny him anything.

“Yes, well.” Merlin coughs a little and makes a show of sitting up straighter, slouched against the headboard so that his body is aligned with Arthur’s. “How are you?”

The simplicity of the question does little to disguise the apprehensive undertone, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by Arthur. The blonde leans toward Merlin and trails his fingers up and down his forearm, as if to reassure him he’s being completely honest when he replies with, “I’m good. I’ve had a good day. I have, Merlin.”

The pressure on Merlin’s arm increases slightly, and Merlin laces his own fingers through Arthur’s to still them. Catching Arthur’s eye and holding his gaze, he just grins and says, “Good. That’s really good, Arthur, I’m glad.” He squeezes Arthur’s hand, and something absolutely terrible grips his heart when Arthur squeezes back but holds on. Merlin gives an exaggerated sigh, feigning boredom. “Can I kiss you now?”

It’s Arthur’s turn to grin. “Always.”

* * *

Darkness shrouds Merlin’s vision when he blearily opens his eyes, confused at the lack of light in the room. The blinds are still shut tight but there’s no early morning sunlight filtering through the sides and casting threads of spun gold across the dirty carpet, no birds chirping happily outside the window. A groggy glance to one side tells him that it’s exactly 3:46AM and one to the other side explains the lack of warmth Merlin’s used to at night.

Arthur’s side of the bed is empty.

This immediately rouses Merlin’s senses and causes him to bolt upright and out of bed, because an absent Arthur in the dead hours of the morning is never, ever a good thing.

“Arthur?” Merlin whispers as he moves quickly but as calmly as he can manage, bare feet hardly making a sound. He checks inside the bathroom first, but it’s dark and empty. He’s momentarily thankful that they live in a small flat in which it’s pretty much impossible for Arthur to hide.

As predicted, Arthur is in plain view in their little darkened kitchen, golden hair reflecting a halo in the moonlight shining in from that one window Merlin forgot to pull the curtains in front of. Wildly, a thought flashes through Merlin’s mind of an ethereal being come to spirit Arthur away from him without goodbyes or last words. But it is just Arthur, sitting on one of the kitchen stools and hunched over the counter, back to Merlin and being very still and quiet.

He’s so quiet that Merlin wonders if it’s possible to fall asleep in that position.

“Arthur?” he says gently, hesitant to approach in case he scares him. He hates treating Arthur like some kind of wild animal, but sometimes Arthur is as unpredictable as one and anyway, Arthur never blames him for it, and Merlin wonders if he even knows that he should be offended at being treated with such trepidation by the very person who shouldn’t, above all others, treat him that way.

Arthur does not reply, does not make a move to acknowledge that he heard Merlin, but Merlin goes over anyway, with great care and repeating Arthur’s name all the way. He doesn’t get so much as a twitch.

Placing a hand gingerly on Arthur’s shoulder, Merlin tries to shake him a little. “Arthur, come on. What are you doing?”

There’s a mug of coffee clenched in Arthur’s hands, and this time his knuckles are white with the effort. He is a different person to the one that greeted Merlin happily several hours ago, and the thought makes Merlin grip Arthur’s shoulder tighter.

“Arthur, you shouldn’t be drinking coffee at this hour. I thought we agreed not to drink it all, remember?” Merlin pries the mug from Arthur’s marble fingers, and meets no resistance. That’s when he realises the coffee is stone cold and hasn’t been touched.

“Arthur, please. Come back to me. Don’t do this, not so soon after… we were going to spend the weekend together. It was going to be fun, so unlike any other weekends we’ve had recently. Remember, Arthur? Can’t you do this for me, this one thing, just this once?”

Merlin forehead is against Arthur’s back before he realises it, both hands now rubbing at Arthur’s shoulders. He doesn’t realise he’s crying until he squeezes his eyes shut and feels the cold, unpleasant sting of them behind his eyelids. He breathes heavily, in and out, in and out, hoping desperately that Arthur will start breathing too.

And then he’s there, twisting around so suddenly it almost sends Merlin to the floor, but his arms come up at almost exactly the same time as Merlin’s, and both men wrap their arms around each other, and Arthur is making all the noise Merlin had wished for and sobbing into Merlin’s neck, the cries loud and painful and gasping and wonderful and his whole body is trembling with it and it only makes Merlin hold him tighter. He tries in vain to stop the tremors and pull Arthur to him, open up his own skin and let him inside and let Arthur breathe through him because he can’t do it on his own and Merlin wishes there was a way to transfer pain from one person to another because he would take Arthur’s pain, all of it, and he would take the sky on his dying shoulders if it meant Arthur would get a moment’s peace to simply breathe.

As it is, they are both only human and this is all they can do, press as close to each other as possible and hope the other knows what they mean. All Merlin can do is crush Arthur’s chest too tightly in the hope it will break open and let him see what he can fix for himself.

Arthur’s muttering nonsensical words into his collarbone now and Merlin pulls back roughly, putting his forehead firmly to Arthur’s as he forces him to meet his eyes. They’re red and blue and so bright it hurts to look at them in the darkness.

Merlin strokes his thumb across Arthur’s cheekbones and Arthur tugs a little helplessly at Merlin’s dishevelled hair and they don’t stop touching until Merlin coaxes Arthur to come back to bed.

* * *

The hour is friendlier when Merlin wakes up again. Arthur is a dead weight beside him, features relaxed in sleep, and Merlin hopes that he has peace wherever he is now. Once, Arthur told him he had recurring dreams of being a knight in shining armour and slaying mighty dragons, bringing glory and prosperity to a kingdom that adored him. It baffles Merlin how that could bring peace to anyone, but when he first met Arthur he’d thought he was exactly the kind of dashing, damsel-in-distress-saving hero Merlin had read about as a kid. Three years later, he still hasn’t found evidence of a bad bone existing in Arthur’s body.

They’d met through mutual friends/meddling half-sisters – Gwen had dragged Merlin to meet her friend Morgana and Morgana’s brother Arthur, who was “a bit different, Merlin, but he’s absolutely lovely and you’ll love him, I promise!” according to Gwen’s enthusiastic rambling. Oblivious as he had been back then, Merlin had gone along with a plan to escape as soon as possible, having no wish to meet Gwen’s reportedly terrifying friend or some other poor stranger who’d been forced into this.

They were on their way to meet them in the park, having picked up Starbucks on the way, and of course a portable hot drink in a grassy area was Merlin’s first mistake. It had been raining heavily the night before, and when he’d looked up at Gwen’s excited screams – apparently she and Morgana hadn’t seen each other in the flesh since university – he’d immediately looked straight into the Sun and consequently slipped on the mud, which propelled him forwards and into the chest of said sun.

And wasn’t the fact that he’d first thought Arthur’s face was the literal Sun just too mortifying for even Merlin himself to admit to?

A full cup of frothy latte had burst out of the weakly manufactured lid Merlin had been cursing since he’d first grown an attachment to Starbucks in university, soaking Merlin’s favourite hoodie and Arthur’s rich red T-shirt in boiling liquid that would dry and leave a lingering stench of bitter coffee for the rest of the day.

Merlin had jumped back and skittered away like a petrified rabbit, bumbling through apologies and curses and more apologies and promises to get Arthur’s T-shirt dry-cleaned or something – and Arthur was grinning easily at him for some insane reason and shaking his head, trying to wave off Merlin’s apologies and assure him that he was fine, it wasn’t going to kill him –

And Merlin had suddenly burst out laughing, because some of the coffee had spilled onto Arthur’s neatly pressed beige trousers, and more specifically onto Arthur’s crotch, and that was the kind of stuff Merlin laughed at. A lot.

Arthur had looked down at himself in confusion, then looked back at Merlin, and after an uncertain pause, had started laughing with him and God, watching Arthur laugh like he would never stop was like looking into the Sun.

Gwen and Morgana had given up on them after a few minutes when the laughter had subsided to rather helpless, girly giggles, the kind that you can’t stop bubbling out of your lips and leave your stomach aching, but it took less than a few minutes for Merlin to fall very, very fast and very, very hard for this man who was the Sun personified and who laughed at himself just because Merlin had laughed at him first.

Studying Arthur’s sleeping face now, Merlin wonders if he’d have done things differently three years ago, if he’d known at the time what he was getting himself into. The truth is, Merlin probably had known all along in the back of his mind, before he’d started seeing it for himself and seeing Arthur at his worst first-hand, but he hadn’t cared because he had Arthur all to himself and that was all that mattered three years ago.

The clock is counting down to midday by the time Merlin forces himself up and out of bed, resisting the urge to hide under the covers and not resurface until Monday morning, or maybe forever. But Arthur needs him to be fully functioning right now, although Merlin lets him sleep for a little longer while Merlin attempts to make something that vaguely resembles a fry-up in the fraught hope that Arthur will be hungry when he wakes up. Then he makes himself a strong cup of tea – he thinks he needs something a little more calming than coffee at the moment – and sits with it in the same seat Arthur sat in when he cried on his shoulder before the Sun had shown up.

Merlin and Arthur have a rule that they don’t turn on the news in the morning, only switching the TV on for the weather for five minutes. The prospect of a day full of work is depressing enough without knowing what other depressing events are happening to other depressed people in numerous other depressed places in the world. Gwen thinks it’s weird, but Arthur had nodded vigorously and agreed wholeheartedly when Merlin had first laid this law down, which Merlin had fully expected him to do. Arthur thinks everything Merlin suggests is the best option.

The rule quickly carried over to the weekends as well, so even though it’s nearing the afternoon, Merlin still takes out the book he hasn’t had a chance to read since last Tuesday and lets himself melt into the thrilling lives of brave, beautiful people who aren’t him. It’s an adventure book, of course, because Merlin hit the age of seven twenty years ago and more or less stopped growing up. The words take him willingly into their embrace – it’s a favourite, an old friend of sorts, the kind of book that’s more flexible than it should be – and he’s diving off the edge of a cliff leaving his problems stranded at the top, trampling them underfoot as he races by on horseback, rapids washing his worries away as they drag him swiftly to an escape route.

Merlin tends to lose track of time when he becomes really engrossed in a book, so he almost jumps out of his skin when something cold touches his shoulder. Twisting around, he discovers Arthur standing behind him, looking uncertain and more than a little lost.

Like last night, Merlin feels a rock hit the glass of his heart, but unlike last night, he doesn’t let it show. Last night was a mistake – it usually doesn’t happen like that. Merlin’s usually better behaved than that, but after the week he’d had, he supposed he just hadn’t been able to help himself or keep up the pretence any longer. It’s understandable. He tries not to blame himself.

“Morning, you. Or –“ he glances at the clock on the microwave, which reads way past one o’clock – “Afternoon, I suppose. You’re freezing, Arthur.”

Since Arthur initiated the first touch, Merlin doesn’t worry about the second, and does not hesitate in rubbing his hands up and down Arthur’s arms, in a somewhat futile attempt to warm him up. “You want something to eat? Do you want a glass of water, maybe? I’ll get you a glass of water, hang on, sit here –“ 

Merlin guides Arthur to sit on the stool he’d just occupied, and Arthur lets him, glassy eyes absently flicking over the back cover of Merlin’s book. Merlin fetches the water, and puts some toast in the toaster and a bowl of soup in the microwave. He casts surreptitious glances at Arthur as he busies himself around the tiny kitchen, but Arthur isn’t paying much attention anyway. He’s wearing a faded red T-shirt and boxers, and he is slightly slumped, hands clasped stiffly in his lap as if he doesn’t know quite what to do with them. His hair hasn’t been washed in a few days – Merlin makes a mental note to deal with that later – and his mouth is as unforgiving as his hands, pressed together in a thin line that whitens the pink lips. His eyes are still studying various objects on the counter, although he keeps coming back to Merlin’s book, and a couple of times he twitches oddly as if about to reach out and touch it, but he never does.

“Do you want to read it?”

Arthur jumps as if shot. Wide blue eyes stare at Merlin like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Merlin swallows something ugly.

“My book. Do you want to read it?”

Arthur’s mouth opens, and he looks to the book, to Merlin, back to the book, and then back at Merlin. “I – I didn’t know if I was allowed to,” he finally says in a voice hoarse from sleep and crying. 

Merlin smiles at him, hoping it looks encouraging. “You only have to ask if you want something, Arthur. Don’t be afraid to ask.”

The amount of times he’s told Arthur this over the years, and yet there’s no evidence of all the hard work Merlin’s put in when Arthur has an episode like he did last night and everything is destroyed in one fell swoop.

The microwave beeps impatiently in the background. Merlin takes the soup out, telling Arthur to let it cool before he starts on it, and butters the toast, placing that in front of Arthur too. Armed with a fresh cup of tea, Merlin seats himself next to Arthur, trying not to look as though he is scrutinising him. 

“Do you feel like doing anything today?”

Arthur chews an angry red cut in his bottom lip.

“I – I don’t think so, Merlin.” 

Merlin tries not to look disappointed. He is well practiced at this.

“That’s alright. We’ll stay in, watch some movies, order takeout. Lazy weekend, yeah? Just us two.”

Arthur nods eagerly, though he looks like he’s trying to hide how relieved he is, for Merlin’s sake. All of Merlin’s disappointment bleeds easily away at how guilty Arthur obviously feels, even in the state he’s in.

_It’s just one more weekend indoors,_ he thinks as he tells Arthur that his soup should be cool enough to eat now. It doesn’t matter.

* * *

“Alright, Gwaine?”

Merlin looks up from his computer screen as Elyan smirks at Gwaine’s haggard appearance. “Late one last night, was it?”

“Like you don’t know, you twat.” He’s only twenty minutes late – not nearly as late as Merlin has been in the past. The first day he’d been late after getting this job, Merlin had tried explaining to Cenred why he might be delayed some mornings, citing Arthur and how sometimes Merlin couldn’t leave him alone until he was settled or someone was with him. Cenred had responded with “Well, you don’t have to deal with him, do you?” and made Merlin work half an hour later than everyone else that day.

Elyan holds up his hands, grin widening. “I wasn’t the one who went home with two girls last night, was I?” He tuts and shakes his head. “Shouldn’t be mucking around on a school night, Gwaine.”

Gwaine, head in his hands, flips him the finger.

Merlin stares at Gwaine with wide, disapproving eyes. “You didn’t –“

“They were in university!” Gwaine protests, looking up at Merlin earnestly. Merlin purses his lips. “I promise. God, I’m so hungover.”

Merlin decides to take pity on him in case Cenred returns from Marketing – he managed to fit in a trip up there almost every day and Merlin thinks it has something to do with Morgause, though he hasn’t told Gwaine this – early and fishes around in his bag as Elyan carries on ribbing Gwaine about his ill-advised drunken night out.

“This is all I have,” he says apologetically, handing Gwaine a box of ibuprofen. “I’ll go and fetch you a coffee now.”

“Oh, God, Merlin, you’re a lifesaver. Have I ever told you that I love you? Because I do, you know.” Merlin flushes as he hauls himself out of his seat. Gwaine winks at him. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me about fifty, actually,” Merlin says cheerfully, before ducking out of the office to go in search of the nearest coffee machine.

When he gets back, Gwaine and Elyan are talking in quick, hushed voices. They jump a little guiltily when Merlin strides into the room, then relax against the back of their chairs.

“You’re looking a bit better already,” Merlin says, a small frown creasing his forehead as he hands Gwaine some crappy instant coffee, cradling his own in his hands. He leans back against the edge of his desk, watching over the rim of his cup.

“It’s all a mask,” Gwaine says smoothly, flashing Merlin a blinding grin. “Honestly, Merlin, thanks a lot.”

Merlin can’t meet his eyes for some reason, and simply nods his head in acknowledgement.

“What, don’t I get one?” Elyan complains, fixing Merlin with hurt eyes. Maybe it’s because he’s Gwen’s brother and Merlin grew up with him, but those eyes haven’t won Merlin over for a long time.

“Not until you get some work done,” he says briskly, springing up and wheeling around the desk to settle down in his chair. “Come on, back to it before Cenred gets back and puts all our heads on sticks.”

“Never took you for a bloody slave-driver,” Elyan mutters as he hunches down in front of his screen, and Merlin catches Gwaine’s eye and bites back a laugh.

But the moment feels odd, and Merlin quickly looks away again.

* *

When he gets home that night, Merlin finds Arthur lying on his stomach on the floor, chin in his hands and Merlin’s book open in front of him.

He looks up when Merlin shuts the door, clear blue eyes widening in alarm and then relaxing just as quickly when he recognises Merlin. His yellow hair is still tousled and messy – he hasn’t remembered to brush it – and some of it has fallen in front of his eyes.

“Merlin!” Arthur’s smile is like the Sun and Merlin cannot bear to look. “Your book’s brilliant, Merlin. I love it. Can I keep it until I’ve finished it?”

Merlin smiles tightly and nods. “Yeah –“ his voice cracks – “I mean, yes. Yes, of course you can, Arthur.”

Arthur’s beam, if possible, grows wider. If it were really possible to grin from ear to ear, Merlin thinks Arthur would surely look like a clown from a horror film by now. “Thank you, Merlin.”

And it is all Merlin can do not to cry.

* *

He ends up ringing Gwen and asking her if she fancies a drink tonight. She doesn’t question why he’s so eager to go out a Monday night, or perhaps she needs one just as much as he does.

They meet a pub their group’s been frequenting for as long as they can remember. Gwen brings Lance, who brings Leon, who brings Morgana, who brings everyone else. Even Gwaine comes, despite it being a little out of his way, because there’s nowhere he won’t travel on the promise of people buying his drinks for him.

Arthur doesn’t come, because he never does. Arthur and alcohol are a disaster waiting to happen.

“Alright, Merlin?” Lancelot greets him, smiling in that achingly honest way he has that often makes Merlin feel like Lance can see everything he’s hiding. In a way, Lancelot sometimes feels like his conscience. “Haven’t seen you for a while. How are you holding up?”

That’s another thing about Lance – he doesn’t need to ask to know if something’s wrong and he’ll find a way to gauge the situation without outright mentioning it. This kind of subtlety has always been lost of Morgana, however, who kisses Merlin’s cheek and guides him to a table as she asks, “So how’s my brother doing?”

“Give the man chance to have a drink first, Morgana,” Leon chuckles, patting Merlin on the shoulder. “How are you, mate?”

Merlin gives all the appropriate responses and smiles in all the right places and orders his usual, despite the fact that he’d kill for something stronger right now. He ends up squashed between Gwaine and Gwen in the little booth in the corner and deeply wishing Gwen would stop discussing their dad’s birthday with Elyan and talk to him instead, because he’s not keen on dealing with Gwaine at the moment.

“So how are you really feeling, then?” Gwaine asks, voice low and closer to Merlin’s ear than Merlin really thinks appropriate. “Don’t lie, Merlin, there’s a reason you dropped off the face of the earth in the last few weeks, and I think we both know what that is. Elyan and I are the only ones that have seen you, and that’s only been at work.”

“Gwaine, I’m not in the mood.” Merlin slams his glass down with a bit more force than necessary, to punctuate his point. He wrinkles his nose. “You stink of beer. Do I have to remind you of the state you were in last night?”

“I’ve only had two. One before I came out,” he grins, and Merlin can’t help snorting. “You were the one who decided to drag everyone out on a work night, anyway. This is possibly the most irresponsible I’ve seen you in the last… oh, three years?”

“Gwaine. I said I wasn’t in the mood.” He finishes off his drink with something like relish. “Get me another one, will you?”

“What did your last slave die of?” But Gwaine dutifully gets up and returns with another two beers, one for him and one for Merlin, and sits down a little closer than he was before. Merlin is only half aware of their thighs pressing together as they get dragged into separate conversation with other people.

* *

Later – when everyone is saying their goodbyes and slipping off in different directions towards home – Gwaine turns to Merlin and says, “Well, I don’t think I fancy taking the tube at this time of night, and I haven’t got the cash for a cab. Want to walk me home?”

Merlin has half a mind to tell Gwaine it’s ridiculous to ask Merlin to walk all the way home with him and then back again just because he wants some company, and that he’s lying about being scared of taking the tube when it’s not even that late, but he doesn’t, because he knows what Gwaine is trying to do. He knows Merlin isn’t ready to go home yet and Merlin is grateful for the easy way out.

Gwaine’s got an arm looped around Merlin’s waist and a hand on his wrist all the way to his flat and later – much later – Merlin will admit that he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t seen it coming.

The inside of Gwaine’s flat is cold, colder than the warm night air they’d stumbled home in, cold enough to sober them both up with a slap that should sting more than it does. As it is, it leaves them numb, and Gwaine only has the best intentions in mind when he asks Merlin the same thing he’s asked him so many times before. Except this time there’s no joking tone in his voice. This time he fixes Merlin with a hard stare and a thousand unsaid questions, begging Merlin to give him a way out before it’s too late.

“It was too late months ago,” is all Merlin mumbles, a little raggedly, and nothing more needs to be said after that.

* *

Merlin wakes up sprawled next to the heap of sheets rather than under them. There’s a vaguely familiar back curled around the sheets, but Merlin doesn’t experience that split-second panic of ‘what-did-I-do-and-who-did-I-do-it-with’ he used to get after one night stands. He knows exactly what he did in the darkest hours of the night last night, and he knows exactly who he did it with.

Gwaine’s flat is still cold, and Merlin wonders vaguely whether the heating system is broken. He thinks he sort of remembers Gwaine’s bedroom from a party the man had ages ago, but he’s surprised to see the cream coloured walls are just as bare as they used to be and there’s a distinct lack of a wardrobe, as well as a light bulb missing from the light fitting.

And he doesn’t know if it’s the missing bulb that does it or the cracks in the far right corner of the ceiling or the fact that Gwaine has stolen all the sheets, but Merlin realises he can’t stay here any longer without crying or doing something equally embarrassing, because these are unfamiliar walls that don’t want him here, and maybe it’s the guilt crawling over his skin and burrowing into his brain, but he feels as if he’s suffocate in this room that isn’t his, lying next to man he doesn’t belong to and who doesn’t belong to him.

In his haste to get dressed and get out the flat, whichever comes first, Merlin forgets to leave Gwaine a note.

* *

Five minutes away from Gwaine’s apartment building, Merlin’s phone buzzes in his pocket. Half tempted to decline the call and the subsequent guilt that would surely arise from speaking to someone who’s oblivious to what Merlin did last night, he pulls it out and checks the screen. Gwen.

Merlin steels his nerves.

“Any reason you’re calling at such an ungodly hour, Gwen?”

“Merlin!” His name sounds like an answered prayer in Gwen’s voice – and quickly becomes a curse when the relief turns to anger. “Merlin, where have you been? We’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours! You haven’t been back home since last night and nobody’s been able to reach you on your phone, it goes to voicemail every time, and –“

“Gwen, calm down. Gwen! Calm down. I can’t – what’s the matter? What’s happened?” Merlin rubs his temple, convinced that Gwen’s taken about five years off his life with that hysterical ramble. He’s in no mood to be yelled at today.

“Arthur!”

Ice washes over Merlin.

“… What?” he says dumbly, and he could kick himself for being so slow.

“Arthur! Something happened to him – while you were off doing God knows what, Merlin, and you know I love you but I can’t believe you weren’t there, I can’t imagine what you left to do last night –“

“Stop it, Gwen! Tell me what happened to Arthur. Where is he?”

Gwen sucks in a breath, and after she lets it out her voice is shaky, but more measured. “He’s at the hospital.”

“The hospit-“ But this isn’t the time for Merlin to panic and demand dozens of answers, so he forces his terror down and instead asks, “Which hospital?”

Gwen gives him directions and doesn’t sound surprised or indignant when Merlin bids her a hasty goodbye and hangs up.

* *

Twenty-five minutes later – twenty-five minutes too long in Merlin’s opinion – he’s running through the hospital’s main entrance and all but shouting, “Arthur Pendragon? I’m his partner,” at the receptionist. She looks vaguely terrified of him, her eyes wide as she points him in the right direction. He can only imagine what he looks like and spares a flash of sympathy for her as he rushes up to Arthur’s room.

Morgana’s standing guard outside his room, for once not looking quite as well-groomed as usual, but no less threatening, her arms folded and her glare directed straight at Merlin. He knows that it would make him quake in his boots if he wasn’t already doing so.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Morgana sounds like she’d shriek at him if they weren’t in a hospital and if Arthur wasn’t in the room behind her. Instead, her voice drips with venom and barely concealed rage.

“I – “ This is one thing Merlin hadn’t thought about. He catches sight of Leon, Gwen and Lancelot sitting on chairs a little way down the corridor, all looking haggard and stressed. Lancelot has dozed off on Gwen’s shoulder, his hand holding hers tightly even in sleep. It makes Merlin feel like the villain. “What happened to him?”

“Car accident.” Morgana’s voice is controlled, almost monotone. “We don’t know exactly how it happened – Arthur’s barely been conscious enough to tell us - but somehow he got out of the flat and wandered outside by himself in the early hours of the morning, panicked at the traffic, and got himself hit by a car. A hit and run. They’re searching for the driver now.” She glances over at Leon and Gwen. “He must have been having one of his episodes. We think he went looking for you. Because you weren’t there when you should have been.” The last part is snapped at him, and when she clenches her teeth together, Merlin can see her lower lip trembling slightly.

“I’m sorry. Morgana, I’m so sorry, you have no idea, but I can’t – I’ll explain later.” When he’d decided what he was going to tell everyone. And spoken with Gwaine. “Can I see him?”

“He’s resting.”

“Please? I just need to see him, I won’t disturb him, I just need to sit by him and –“

“He needs rest.”

“Morgana.” That’s Leon, sounding exhausted but firm. “Let him go in.”

Merlin turns pleading eyes to her. She looks to Leon, then him, and finally nods. Merlin ducks into the room, but before he can shut the door behind him, Morgana grabs him arm and tugs his head next to hers.

“You’d better have a good story for when you come out of this room,” she hisses, and the raise of her eyebrows has Merlin thinking that somehow, she knows. 

He doesn’t have time to dwell on that, however, because she shuts the door with a little more vigour than is necessary, leaving him alone with Arthur.

The person in the bed is not Arthur. Or, it is, but it isn’t the Arthur that should be there. This person is pale where skin should be tanned, still and straight where a healthy body should fidget and curl up on its side, and is littered with bruises and cuts varying in size, depth and seriousness, where the surface should be smooth and untainted and perfect.

Merlin approaches the bed cautiously. His hand aches to reach out and cover Arthur’s, but he restrains for fear of waking Arthur up. No matter how reluctant Morgana might have been to let Merlin in, she was right that Arthur needed rest.

Instead, he takes a seat and edges the chair forward as close to the bed as he dares. The equipment on the other side of the bed monitoring Arthur’s heartbeat and whatever else unnerves Merlin, and he tries to ignore the constant beeping. 

Arthur is sleeping with a slight frown, and Merlin wonders how painful the injuries are. The cuts on his face are minor, but there’s a nasty looking gash starting just below his collarbones and disappearing beneath the hospital gown, and Merlin decides he doesn’t want to think about what the rest of his body looks like. Arthur’s left arm is in a cast, and there are bandages wrapped around his head, but those are the only obvious signs of injury Merlin can see.

The terror has subsided slightly, at the sight of Arthur alive and close enough to hold if he panicked, but it only leaves room for more guilt. Merlin knows he’s going to have to sort last night out – decide if he’s going to come clean or fabricate a story with Gwaine, both options seeming equally horrifying to him – but now is not the time for that. He wishes he could grovel at Arthur’s feet for forgiveness – wishes Arthur was the type of the person who’d allow that – and he wishes Arthur would shout at him, curse at him for not being there and scaring him so much he had to go out in a world he could barely navigate even when he was himself, and he wishes he could go back in time and stop himself from drinking so much, stop himself from going home with Gwaine, because he should have been there with Arthur. He should have thought of Arthur, alone in the flat, and what Merlin’s absence might do to him. He should have done anything except what he did last night.

“Merlin?”

“Arthur!” He nearly knocks the chair over in his haste to get up and get to Arthur’s side. A weak smile pulls at Arthur’s mouth.

“Merlin.”

“Yeah. I’m here. Arthur, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe – I left you alone, Arthur, and I shouldn’t have done that. I’ll never do it again.” He’s clutching Arthur’s hand between both of his own, and Arthur’s blinking blearily up at him, apparently not registering anything Merlin is anything. 

“Merlin – please –“ Arthur’s voice is hoarse, and Merlin jumps away from him.

“What? Did I hurt you? Are you in pain? Should I get a nurse, or –“

“Merlin, don’t. Just –“ He motions with his free hand, the one that’s not restrained by the cast, and Merlin understands and slips his hand into Arthur’s again, raising it and pressing a kiss to the knuckles. Arthur smiles faintly.

“Good to see you,” he croaks, and it cuts through Merlin like the sword of the hero in his book. 

“You too,” Merlin says, all his breath suddenly snatched from him, and he squeezes Arthur’s hand, smiling when Arthur squeezes back. “Get some sleep. I’m here now. I won’t leave you again, Arthur, I promise.”

Arthur nods, his eyes searching Merlin’s face for a moment before he lets them close and slips back into sleep. Merlin can feel his racing heart slowing to match the pace of Arthur’s, and he rests his head on the bed next to Arthur’s chest, questions about Gwaine and last night and Arthur and his guilty conscience all fading to background noise as he takes solace in Arthur, alive and warm and breathing steadily beside him, hand clasped in his.

“I won’t leave you again.”


End file.
